The faceless saxophonist, Programme, Position, Ah yes the Elbe & Packing for Mongolia
by Alistair Noon
[ poetry - march 06 ]
The faceless saxophonist
Under the bridge, on railway land
a faceless saxophonist
shakes a wrist
and flexes a hand
to skip up scales
and splice
danger and care, precise
as sleepers and rails,
lay down sets,
bolt sharpened sevenths, minor thirds,
while southbound birds
write ragged alphabets:
sharp V's, shifting L's,
undulating U's,
jamming the bird blues
as the saxophone swells
to a drop.
Neither the dumb birds
nor the emperors of words
have time to stop,
to locate the slurred
speech of the saxophonist,
trace its twist:
it stays unseen, heard.
Programme
Fat
bud
on a stiff
branch
capsule
counting
down
to launch
Position
down with up
and against for
over with under
and beyond before
instead of by means of
around and across
and through with between
(due to because)
out of in
and ahead with the rear
onwards from since
and away with near
into out
and to the left of right
towards without
(except beside)
Ah yes, the Elbe
Ah yes, the Elbe, we rumbled
over it yesterday.
Still as a sleeper,
but it must be breathing.
Movement hides
within great cornfields,
the grain untrampled
in our limited seconds.
Across quick moments
of watching the water
tank-herds halt
before flattening fields
Berlinwards, and Romebound
horses snort
before plunging the ford.
Silt seems silent.
Packing for Mongolia
It's time to strike camp again,
airlift rucksacks and cases
from cupboard summits, then
descend to floorboard bases,
rummage wrappings and dust,
fluff, indeterminate dirt,
to air my pockets. I must
load up my yurt.
It's time to pack the heart
in unmeltable iceblocks,
decide which books will depart
for the grasslands, which to box,
flog, ditch, give away,
when to disconnect subscriptions
to the events of yesterday,
the newsprint fact-fictions.
It's never or now to tourniquet
cheques on long-bleeding bills,
find homes for the leafsway
roommates of my windowsills,
herd in my friendships,
tick lists, make calls, shove
goodbyes into frantic debits
of time, hurry transfers of love,
disperse party invites
by keytap, list and click
along the optical windpipes
that gulp the messages to quick
breaths, blown in moments
by light, switch and multiplex
across plains, under oceans
and back to this city's desks.
I will side-gallop across borders
the photopage of my passport
open: for me there are no warders
who want my arse caught.
This is a familiar escape:
I live beneath the flightpath,
the slow, shimmering landscape
of the turbine's aftermath.
